Iverson, Shaq and Yao Enter Hall of Fame with a Trail of Memories and Questions

SPRINGFIELD, Mass. — Hall of Famer is a powerful phrase, an almost mystical title conjuring greatness and grandeur. Once earned, the moniker becomes a de facto first name, demanding reverence.

As of Friday night, he is no longer Shaquille O’Neal, but Hall of Famer Shaquille O’Neal. The man towering over him on the stage? That’s Hall of Famer Yao Ming. The little dude with the cornrows standing among the giants? Hall of Famer Allen Iverson.

Their induction into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame certified their place in history, and they were rightfully, often raucously, celebrated for their outsize achievements. O’Neal, Iverson and Yao all dominated the NBA, in their own unique ways. Their fame is unquestioned.

Yet amid the standing ovations and the stirring tributes, the woots, the shout-outs and the tears, came frequent reminders that “fame” is an elastic concept, molded to fit each honoree, no matter his imperfections.

And this was a uniquely imperfect class of NBA inductees.

O’Neal: a freakish blend of force and finesse, who powered his way to four NBA championships, one Most Valuable Player award and three Finals MVPs. Yet we will forever wonder how many more trophies he would have collected if not for his petty feuds and spotty work habits.

Iverson: a dazzling entertainer and relentless competitor who scored more points than almost anyone during his prime years—and took more shots than all of them. He grated on coaches, skipped practices, stoked controversy on and off the court and spent his final years adrift in the NBA, unable or unwilling to evolve.   

Yao: a star in his native China, an All-Star in the NBA, a graceful giant at 7’5″ who could dominate with power or finesse. Yet he played just seven full NBA seasons, retiring at age 30 because of foot troubles.

“My career ended too soon,” Yao told the audience in Springfield, hitting a somber note to start his acceptance speech.

Their immense talent and showmanship made all three stars worthy of the Hall. Their frailties made them easier to relate to, accessible, more human. That’s not always the case when we’re discussing our sports heroes.

Michael Jordan was a virtual god on the court, inspiring awe among fans and rivals alike—including Iverson, who on Friday recalled the surreal feeling of facing his idol on the court.

“The first time I played against him, I looked at him, and for the first time in my life, a human being didn’t look real to me,” Iverson said. “I literally seen his aura. … I’m saying to myself, like, ‘Man, that’s Mike.’ I can’t stop looking at him.”

The legends have that kind of woozying effect on people, even in retirement. Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Jerry West and Magic Johnson seem to exist on a higher plane.

Or maybe it’s just that time has smoothed over the rough edges of their careers. We eventually forgive the shots that were missed, the championships that were …

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